Waiting

In Waiting, I fuse the element of the still image character, with the moving smoke, that spirals upwards and fills the room with the character's anticipation.  I enjoy creating this type of contrast - the still image, versus an element of motion.  I also like to play with coupling motifs: the condensation on the window, partnered with the character's anticipation, and the smoke that seeps through the cracks in the wall, to find the character's beloved.  Similarly, I play with aspects of shading that enable me to have a softer smudged look, in contrast to a pointed and more focused line: the highlighted smoke, versus the harder edged umbrella.  I weave a personal motif  from our family life with autism into this piece (our six year old son lives with autism): the element of not being able to look directly at someones face, and the sensory processing difficulty, which the character experiences with the jumble of music, voices, and smoke.  Ever since I had originally created this drawing, I've had elements of a story cycling through my head.  This week, I put it down "on paper;" giving closure to this round of creation.  I wait no more!  The character is left suspended there, indefinitely waiting.  His experience of waiting, is tied into and reflected by the readers, who are being left with a question mark, thus also experiencing their own waiting. 

Waiting

Overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, perched high up on a cliff, lays an old rustic pub.   Inside, I position myself on an uneven wooden stool, leisurely nursing a spirit from the bar.  The balancing midpoint of the rocking of my seat, hooks me into the swaying motion of the sea water, way down bellow the cliff.  I can barely tell whether I'm on dry land, or out at sea.  Being far up above sea level provides me with some clarity of just how far I have traveled.

With my raincoat still on, I am only slightly warmer from the dampness of the rain and the draft from which I just came.  My umbrella, amongst other dark ones in the corner, drapes over a slanted coat rack.  The uneven texture of the rust colored brick wall, juxtaposes a backdrop to little consecutive drops of remaining rain water.  They descend from the umbrella trunk onto the floor, smoothly sliding down at their convenience.  The drops crackle down in a repetitive fashion onto the increasingly glistening wet surface.  With each downwards glissando, my pulse rises.  It loops in rhythmic thumps, just like the rain drops, almost audibly.

A dull ache continues to fill my chest with anxiety.  I attempt to focus on my breathing, just to slow down, to moderate some sense of composure.  Sweat beads form on my brow and smudge the glass of my lenses, leaving me all the more mindful of my own thoughts.  I remain adrift, much like the boat which I had just departed, far from coming into a satisfying focus.  Still, I sit there, waiting in the dampness of this room.

Condensation forms on the inside of an arched triangular window that overlooks the ocean bellow.  It layers onto the cold glass, as if consumed in its own anticipation.  It partners with that of my very own.  I wonder how long it would take for it to completely evaporate; perhaps as long as my own anticipation were to finally dissipate.

Still, I wait.

Settled in for a prime view, my gaze hypnotically locks onto the entryway.  I gradually forget about my little ails, as the effect of my drink now blurs them into a milder haze.  I am transfixed.  A dim light from a ceiling lantern hanging over the doorway, forms a cozy rendezvous for petite night bugs' delight.  Voices jumble in polyphony coincide with background music.  Phasing in and out, they become increasingly distant in their fading counterpoint.  Here and there, I am sobered into reality by someones staccato laugh.  Voices interlace with music, and music interweaves with voices, in a swirl which leaves me questioning if my senses are acutely heightened, versus further intoxication.  An overlay of smoke and the faint sent of alcohol in the air, ties this all into one confusing concoction.  I attempt to refocus on my breathing, to regain some sense of clarity.

Shadowed images pass by in my periphery, as if coasting beside me in slow motion.  I do not turn my gaze away to look at their faces, nonetheless.  I am not one who's comfortable with direct gazes, as I've been told that "the eyes are the windows to someones soul."   Growing up, I took that meaning too literally.  Until this day, it frightens me.  Only one face will capture my eye.  I will know it when it is time; I will recognize this particular silhouette.

Time seems to have suspended indefinitely.  It is in no hurry to appease my unswerving intent.  My eyes fixate on the antique metal keyhole on the arched wooden door.  If only the stroke of a single key turn were to conjure up the one I await.  Several times, I think that I see the door nob turning, but then, no one enters; my mind plays tricks at my own expense.

Still, I want.  Still, I hope.

Puff, inhale slowly, then exhale, and another breath, and another puff.  I sit there alone, in the scattered crowd, waiting.  Waiting is the only real thing over which I posses any sort of control.  Single strands of smoke from my cigarette float upwards and onwards, interlocking in their graceful assent, getting drawn to some mysterious sway.  They accept the lantern's subliminal invitation, becoming encapsulated by its magnetic glow.   Smoke elevates and thickens, smoldering with each of my passing breaths.  With each slow exhale, it spirals up, voluminously filling out the space of the increasingly clouded tavern.

With each exhale, the room expands with my anticipation.  Smoke escapes out through the cracks and into the cold air, to find the one that I await.  I am becoming part of the fixtures of this room; it knows of my desire.  The cracks on the walls mirror my journey.  Much like the sturdiness of the brick which they affect, nonetheless, they do not affect my resolve.  My spirit remains uncrackable.

I will not move from this one spot, as I had promised.  I will not betray.  Paralyzed by my own impassioned state; I do not dare part from this uneven stool.  I have waited already this long.  Maybe she is held up just a bit longer?  I am tormented by my trepidation, by my longing for her.  I want, but I do not know for certain what is yet to follow.  I remain suspended there, on a cliff, waiting.

Still, I love.  Still, I wait.